


A Slice of Home

by queenofthepuddingbrains



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Gross quantities of pizza are eaten, M/M, Multi, Pizza is a metaphor for friendship, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains/pseuds/queenofthepuddingbrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months following The Battle of Manhattan, Steve tries to adjust to the world, Clint tries to win a bet he never actually made, and the whole team eats a lot of pizza.  (Spoiler alert: The pizza is a metaphor for friendship.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enigma731](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/gifts).



> Thanks so much to [Crazy4Orcas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy4Orcas/pseuds/Crazy4Orcas) for being a great beta. Her suggestions and comments were invaluable (not the least of which was coming up with Clint's code-name for his pizza project).
> 
> This fic is dedicated to [enigma731](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731). I had a silly idea late one night about pizza. And it would have died a silly idea's quick death if it hadn't been for her support and encouragement. No matter what else is happening in the world around us, know that, to me, you're like the perfect slice of pizza.

Steve checked the wall clock…again. Apparently, two whole minutes had passed since the last time. He tried to suppress a sigh as he glanced around the conference room. Fury had called this meeting for 13:00 It was now 13:17 and, so far, only he, Romanoff, and Barton had showed. Currently, Agent Barton was playing some sort of game (he had emphatically called it _“an exercise, Nat!_ ”) that involved bouncing a paperclip off of various items in the room in an attempt to land it in his empty water glass. Agent Romanoff, after a series of increasingly disapproving looks Barton’s way had gone unheeded, was sitting in quiet contemplation, attention turned inward. For all Steve knew, she could have been pondering the chipped paint in the corner of the room, or deciding how best to kill him if the occasion called for it. Probably both.

_Thunk._

The paperclip landed just to the right of Steve’s spot at the table. He picked it up, but stopped just short of placing it back in Barton’s outstretched hand. Instead, he tossed it in an arc towards the other end of the table. It bounced off the water pitcher, flew higher into the air, ricocheted off of the wall clock (now reading 13:22 p.m.), and _clink!_ landed solidly in the water glass.

Steve looked over at Barton, and the archer gave him an impressed nod. He also seemed to take the interaction as an invitation to break the silence that had prevailed in the room for the last twenty minutes.

“Ugh! I am so hungry,” Barton moaned, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up onto the tabletop.

“You’re always hungry,” Romanoff pointed out, a small smile on her face.

“Not the point, Nat. If Fury is going to drag us all in here, and be late, the least he can do is provide some food. I mean, c’mon! I could really go for a good slice of pizza right about now.”

“Is there even such a thing anymore?” Steve asked, surprising himself and, based on the way they were both now staring at him, the room’s two other occupants.

“What’s that, Cap?” Barton asked

“Well, I mean….” Steve faltered, running a hand through his hair. “Since I’ve been back, all I’ve seen around are these chain places. You know. Pizza Hut and that one with the gladiator guy. I just haven’t been impressed is all.”

“Yeah, but that’s not real pizza,” Barton protested. “New York’s still got all kinds of family-run places that’d knock your socks off..:”

“Maybe,” Steve replied quietly. “But I’ll bet they couldn’t compare to the place over in Brooklyn that I used to save up for.”

“Really?” Barton drew out the word. “How much? ‘Cause I bet I could find one that does.” His eyes lit up in challenge.

Steve just scoffed and shook his head, looking away.

“Well what was so great about your damn pizza place anyway?” Barton demanded.

* * *

 

_“Mmmmmm. I’m telling you, Steve. They wanna give fellas a reason to keep fighting? Here it is.” Bucky helped himself to another slice, stretching a piece of cheese across the table as he did so. “Mario’s is the best. I’m going to dream about this pizza while I’m over there. And when I get home, you know the first thing I’m going to do—after I come pick up your punk ass? I’m going to come here and get one of Mario’s deluxe extra large pies...just for myself._

_Steve laughed. “Come off it, Buck! Even if you got captured and starved for a month, you couldn’t put that much food away by yourself.”_

_Bucky grinned. “Yeah, well who’d help me? Your skinny self? I don’t think so. You just watch and see.”_

_Steve shook his head, but couldn’t keep the grin off his face._

_“Ok, smartass,” Bucky chuckled, “I’ll make you a bet. When I get home, I’ll eat an extra large on my own. If I don’t, I won’t drag you out dancing for six months. But if I do, you have to go to Coney Island with me. And we’re going to ride_ everything _! Deal?”_

 _Steve narrowed his eyes as he considered. “No dancing for a_ year _,” he countered._

_“Fine, fine. No dancing for a year.” Bucky matched the seriousness of Steve’s gaze for a second, then dissolved once more into a grin. “Now come on and eat up! Put some meat on that scarecrow frame of yours.”_

_Shaking his head fondly, Steve took his own slice of pizza, wrapping himself in the tantalizing smell of garlic and the soothing sound of his best friend laughing like they still didn’t have a care in the world._

* * *

 

_Clunk!_

Steve was shaken out of his memories by the sound of Barton’s feet falling solidly to the ground as he shifted to sit upright.

“You alright there, Cap?” There was worry in Barton’s voice and, as Steve refocused his gaze, he saw that Romanoff had allowed concern to crease her brow as well.

“Yeah.” Steve tried to respond, cringing when his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it, almost angrily. “Yes, I’m fine. Just…forget I said anything. It doesn’t even matter.”

Barton leaned forward, opening his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open. Fury had finally arrived, towing Stark and Banner with him and speaking in rather clipped tones about something. Steve turned away from Barton’s stare just in time to hear something about “proper use of hazardous chemicals”. He studiously gave the director his attention, ignoring the way he felt Barton continue to observe him for a few more seconds.

If he hadn’t been so determined to avoid the marksman’s attention, Steve might have noticed that Barton broke his staring match with the side of Steve’s head only to exchange a series of glances with Romanoff. A quirk of his eyebrows proposed a plan. A purse of her lips accepted.

Steve missed all of this. Fury, now standing at the head of the table, did not. He knew enough to realize that Strike Team Delta was up to something and, more importantly, that it was probably best he didn’t know what it was. Hopefully this time they’d keep the damage to a minimum. Which reminded him, he still owed the Hungarian Prime Minister a bottle of scotch.

He sighed internally. “Alright people. Settle down. Let’s discuss the situation that’s coming out of Latveria….”


	2. Lombardi's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never make a bet with Hawkeye. Although, even if you don't, he'll probably think you did.

A week later, Steve had almost completely forgotten about the awkward moment in the conference room.  So he thought nothing of it when he got a text message from Romanoff:       

“Mission Alert:  32 Spring Street.  Come quickly.  :)  


Steve paused  his workout.  Quickly throwing his street clothes back on, he grabbed his shield and headed out.  When he arrived at the address, he found a nondescript storefront with a red awning reading “Lombardi’s”.  Parking his motorcycle, Steve glanced around quickly, trying to find the threat.  Instead, he found Barton and Romanoff learning casually against the wall by the front door.

“What’s the situation?” Steve called, jogging quickly across the street to meet them.

“Parmesan.” Barton replied with a wide smile.

“Beg pardon?”

“According to my sources, this place has the best parmesan cheese blend on the market,” Barton clarified.

Romanoff laughed, “By sources, do you mean Yelp!?”

“Hey!  Lay off!” Barton nudged her with his shoulder. “My research is _impeccable_.”

Steve glanced confusedly between the two.

“As I recall, Cap,” Barton drawled, “you and I have a wager.  And I _never_ back down from a challenge.  So let’s go find us _some knock-your-socks-off good_ pizza.”

Steve stared at Barton for a few seconds in disbelief, before turning an accusing gaze on Romanoff.

“You used a Mission Alert to call me down her for _pizza_?” he asked incredulously.  “That’s a complete abuse of resources.  What if a real situation developed and people needed us?”

“ _Relax_ , Rogers,” Romanoff countered with a roll of her eyes, “There’s nothing critical going on at the moment.  And Fury knows how to reach us all if something does come up.”

“Besides,” she continued, arching one delicate eyebrow, “do you have anything better to do?”

The two continued to glare at each other for a moment longer.  That is, Steve glared.  Romanoff simply stared back in amusement.

Barton broke the silence by clapping his hands once and enthusiastically rubbing them together.

“Okay, then.  Let’s get our grub on!”

He swung the door to Lombardi’s open with a flourish, allowing Romanoff to enter before sauntering in himself.  With a rueful shake of his head, Steve followed them.

An hour and a half later, Steve found himself laughing at yet another one of Barton’s amusing (if highly improbable) stories of missions gone wrong.  Steve’s irritation at the partners’ deception had long since passed.  In fact, now he was just amused by the thought of Fury’s reaction if he actually did turn in a report of this “mission”.

_June 1, 2012_

_Target: Lombardi’s Pizza_

_Team entered establishment to investigate reports of exceptional parmesan cheese blend._

_Observations:_

  *        _Cheese in question is delicious._
  *        _The pizza itself has a bit too much garlic._
  *        _Clint is kind of a hoot when he’s not being controlled by a megalomaniac._
  *        _Still probably shouldn’t believe half of the things he says._
  *        _Although, this actually wasn’t such a bad idea._



 


	3. Fat Sal's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because something's ridiculous doesn't mean it can't be important.

“Hey, hey Cap!  Wait up!”

Clint’s voice echoed down the hallway, and Steve forced himself to stop and wait for the archer to catch up.  He’d just come from a rather unpleasant debriefing with Fury and the rest of the Security Council and he wanted nothing more than to escape SHIELD for the evening. 

“You on your way out?” Clint asked.

“Yes, thankfully,” Steve didn’t even try to hide the relief in his voice.

Clint grinned. “Yeah, I heard the Council was in fine form today.”

“How did you hear about that?  I _just_ left.”

“Nat told me,” Clint explained with a shrug.

“Romanoff?  But she’s not even _here_ today.  How did she…” Steve trailed off as Clint looked at him with wry amusement.

“Dude.  She’s Natasha Romanoff .” Clint said, as if that explained everything. “You’re probably better off not knowing.”

Steve silently agreed.

“Anyway,” Clint continued, “I actually did have a reason for stopping you.  You got plans tonight?”

“I figured I’d just spend the evening at home.  Maybe watch one of those documentaries Bruce lent me.  Get a workout in.”

“Yeah,” Clint scoffed, “Well, that’s not happening.  You’re coming with me.”  As he spoke, Clint nudged Steve towards the exit.

“Coming with you where?” Steve asked skeptically.

“I got a lead on this place in Queens.  Word is they do a slice of pepperoni that’s to die for!”  Clint sounded quite pleased with himself at this announcement, and looked at Steve expectantly.

“Pizza again?  I don’t know, Clint.  I’m pretty beat.”

“All the more reason to relax with a nice slice of cheesy, carbohydrate-filled awesomeness,” Clint argued. “Besides, this place is called Fat Sal’s.  How can you _not_ want to check out a place named that?”

Steve couldn’t help but grin at Clint’s enthusiasm.  “Alright, fine,” he agreed, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Awesome!” Clint enthused. “We should get going though.  I told Nat we’d meet her there at 18:30.  You really don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Following his teammate (friend?) out onto the street, Steve found himself reckoning that Agent Romanoff wasn’t the only one whose ways of influence he might need to be concerned about. 

Forty minutes found Steve ensconced in a cozy booth at Fat Sal’s pizzeria, Romanoff calmly regarding him from the other side.  Steve fidgeted slightly under her gaze.  He still couldn’t quite get a read on her, and that made him nervous.  Just as he was wondering if they’d sit in silence until Clint returned from placing their order, Romanoff spoke.

“So,” she ventured, “Clint managed to coax you out for a night on the town, huh?  Have to admit, I wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to pull it off.  Isn’t it coming up on your bedtime?”

Steve sat gob smacked for a moment.  Then he noticed the slight quirk of Romanoff’s eyebrow, the tiny purse of her lips that he remembered from a conversation about trading cards.  She was teasing him!

The knowledge somehow set him at ease, and he let himself ask the question that had been rattling around the back of his mind since he and Clint left headquarters.

“You know,” he began, “I kind of thought this whole pizza thing was a one-time deal.  I mean, you’d think Clint wouldn’t want to waste his time on a bet that we didn’t _technically_ make.”

Natasha snorted, a look of fond annoyance (amusement?) crossing her face.  Steve decided it suited her. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on Clint giving up on anything so easily,” she explained, “He tends to hold onto things, especially the ones no one else thinks he should be bothering with.” Natasha’s voice grew distant with that last sentence.  “You might find yourself being grateful he’s stubborn like that one day,” she said, as her face clouded briefly.

Shaking off whatever emotion she was feeling, along with Steve’s confused look, she continued with a grin. “Besides, I haven’t seen him this excited about something in a while.  He’s already made a whole list of places to drag you to.  Sorry to break it to you Rogers, but I think you’re his new project.”

“And don’t tell me you don’t have the time,” Natasha continued, pointing a finger at Steve’s chest and fixing him with a firm look as he opened his mouth to do just that.  “We both know you don’t really have that much else going on outside of work.  And you can’t fool me.  You had fun the last time, _despite_ your best efforts.”

“I did,” Steve conceded.  “But you have to admit that this is more than just a little ridiculous.  Tromping all around New York City looking for the best slice of pizza when there’s so much else we could be doing?”

“It’s not a little ridiculous,” Natasha countered, looking over to where Clint was still in line waiting to place their order.  “It’s _completely_ ridiculous.  It’s nonsensical and childish and a _complete_ waste of time.  It’s just so….so…”

She paused for breath, and Steve realized that the small smile gracing her lips was the most genuine he’d ever seen from her. 

“It’s just so very _Clint_.”

Natasha met his gaze then, and Steve was struck by the warmth and relief in her eyes.  He realized, suddenly, in a moment of clarity that was almost painful, that he wasn’t the only one struggling to redefine his place in the world.  Far from it.  So maybe he should stop trying to do it all on his own.

And, as he watched a grinning Clint make his way back towards them, gracefully weaving between people and holding their order number aloft in triumph, Steve decided that he would happily try every pizza joint on Clint’s list. Really, how hard could it be?

_June 22, 2012_

_Target: Fat Sal’s_

_Observations:_

  *        _The pepperoni is sliced a bit too thick._
  *        _Clint should_ not _be allowed to place orders unsupervised, unless you want to be between him and Natasha when she realizes he ordered anchovies (although, she ate all of them, so maybe she only pretends to hate them because Clint literally cackles when he thinks he’s gotten one over on her?)_
  *        _Clint has a twenty minute presentation prepared on why the Avengers discount card should “totally be a thing”.  He will share this presentation with you, regardless of whether or not you ask him to._
  *        _Natasha folds her pizza in half, eating each slice in four and a half efficient bites—unless it’s a slice she’s stolen from Clint.  Then she takes her time, slowly chewing each bite around a smug grin._
  *        _Clint and Natasha_ (My friends Clint and Natasha) _really are determined to hunt all over the five boroughs for the perfect slice._
  *        _This isn’t as objectionable as it probably should be._
  *        _Just because something is ridiculous doesn’t mean it can’t be important._



 

 


	4. Target Cafe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve meets his most daunting obstacle yet: interior design

Steve looked around him. The harsh overhead lights were giving him the beginnings of a headache, and the sheer amount of choices facing him was overwhelming. It didn’t help that he was completely out of his depth. None of his previous training, nor the research he’d been doing since he’d awoken had prepared him for this type of mission. Then again, maybe if he thought back on some of his art classes….

Clint suddenly appeared at his elbow, chewing on something and carrying a white paper plate. Pulled from his slightly-panicked musings, Steve noticed that the paper plate, nearly bled through with grease, held two slices of decidedly unappetizing looking pizza. One already had a large bite missing, no doubt the cause of Clint’s loud smacking.

“Want a slice?” Clint mumbled around his mouthful.

Steve looked at the offering disdainfully. “That doesn’t look very good,” he ventured, looking askance at the suspicious looking pepperoni and grease-soaked plate.

“Oh, it’s horrible,” Clint responded cheerfully, “Tastes like cardboard dipped in marinara.”

“Then why on _earth_ would you pay for it?” Steve wondered.

“Trust me,” Clint offered conspiratorially, “She’s going to ask for your opinion soon. But there won’t really be a right answer. So, it’s best to have something to keep your mouth full as an excuse, even if it’s the store café’s lousy excuse for food.”

Clint and Steve looked together back towards the site of Steve’s earlier panic, where Natasha stood between two aisles of the local Target. A few moments ago, she had been perusing bath towels, but now she appeared to have moved on to accent pillows.

She picked up two slightly different geometric patterns, eyeing them both critically. Then suddenly, she was walking back towards the two men.

Natasha held the two pillows out for Steve’s inspection. “What do you think, Cap? Which one do you like better?”

Startled, Steve looked to Clint for help, but his friend just took another comically large bite of pizza, nodding suggestively towards the other slice still on the plate.  
Steve was tempted, but… ( _art, he thought, it’s just a different kind of art_ )

“Well,” he said gesturing to the pillow on his left, “I like the pattern of that one, but I think the color is a little dark. Might be a little oppressive with the paint color in my apartment.

Steve allowed a small smile to overtake his face as he heard Clint choking on his bite of pizza to his right and saw an impressed look cross Natasha’s face.

“Then again,” he pointed to the pillow on the right, “the shapes on that pattern are a little large. Do they have anything that kind of splits the difference?”

“Actually, yeah,” Natasha said, walking back towards the display and gesturing for Steve to follow. “They had another one that I think you’ll really like. And it would actually go well with an area rug I saw the next aisle over.”

“Is it a patterned rug?” Steve asked, taking one of the pillows from Natasha and falling into step beside her. “Because I think a solid one would really go better for the aesthetic…”

Clint stared after the pair, mouth hanging open and rapidly cooling pizza congealing on his plate. “Wait…what just happened?”

* * *

 

Four hours later, Clint flopped dramatically onto Steve’s couch, using one of the new throw pillows to break his fall.

“Jesus, Natasha,” he groaned, “Did he really need to get _all_ of this stuff?”

“Oh, stop it, Barton,” Natasha nudged him good naturedly with her foot as she passed by him carrying a stack of new bowls towards the kitchen. “Or are you saying that four trips up and down a flight of stairs is too much for your stamina these days.”

Clint raised his head just enough to leer at her. “Oh my stamina’s just fine baby.”

Steve groaned from the bedroom, where he was remaking his bed with new sheets. “Clint, please.”

Clint laughed, only to have the sound choked off into a grunt as Natasha re-entered the room and hurled the television remote into his chest.

“Here,” she said, “Make yourself useful. Go ahead and set up the Netflix account.”

“Netflix?” Steve asked, re-entering the living room himself, “That’s the movie-watching thing you were talking about last week right? I don’t have one.”

“You do now,” Natasha answered with a smile. “Signed you up this morning.”

Clint sat up with a broad grin. “All right, Nat! Don’t you worry, Steve-O. I’m going to put all the best things on your list.”

“My what?” Steve had been feeling increasingly more comfortable throughout the day—which started when Natasha had burst into his SHIELD assigned apartment that morning, towing Clint behind her and declaring that “This isn’t an army barracks, Rogers. The dreariness in here is depressing. Come on, we’re taking you shopping!”--But now he was starting to feel lost again.

Suddenly, Natasha was at his side. “Don’t worry, Steve,” she said, “Just let him do his thing. Let’s hang the new prints on this wall.”

“Yeah, alright. But let’s get dinner soon, huh? I’m _starving_ ” Steve acquiesced.

“Hey,” Clint interjected, “I offered you some of my food earlier. Not my fault if you didn’t take it.”

“That wasn’t food Clint,” Natasha argued, “I’ve seen lab waste at Stark’s that looked more appetizing.”

Steve grunted in agreement, already turning a critical eye towards the blank wall in his living room and the assortment of prints he and Natasha had selected.

“Chinese?” Clint called from the couch.

“Chinese.” Natasha agreed, before turning to help Steve.

“Sweet,” Clint celebrated, reaching for his phone.

* * *

 

Yet another two hours later, Steve’s coffee table was covered in empty Chinese carry out boxes. The three friends were bundled comfortably on Steve’s couch. Having explained the basic interface of Netflix to Steve, Clint had selected a show called “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (“ _Get it? Because you’re Captain_ America?), which he insisted was perfect to wait out a “food coma”.

Steve allowed himself to bask in contentment for a quiet moment. He had to admit that Natasha had been right. Looking around his newly redecorated apartment, he could easily see that it was now much more welcoming. He might even be tempted to call it _homey_.

Steve caught Natasha’s gaze as he glanced around the room and, like she usually did, she seemed to read his mind.

“The place looks nice, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “Fixing it up was a good idea. Thanks for your help.”

Natasha shrugged, almost self-consciously. “It’s not that big of a deal. Although,” she cast a pointed look at the wall of posters, “I still think it could use a bit more of a personal touch. Maybe you could sketch something to add to that someday.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment. Then, cautiously, he replied. “Yeah, maybe. Someday.”

Then he laughed. “I guess I really should just get used to listening to you. You were right about the decorations. And the food. The Chinese was really good,” Steve admitted.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Clint spoke up from his other side, dragging his attention away from the hijinks unfolding onscreen. “There are all _sorts_ of foods for you to try. Not that I’ve given up on the ”Operation Perfect Slice”. But you should really try Thai sometime.”

Steve chuckled lightly, gesturing towards the TV, “Movies I have to watch. Food I have to eat. It’s starting to get a little hard to keep it all straight.”

“Maybe you should start a list,” Clint suggested half-jokingly.

“Maybe I will,” Steve answered.


	5. Il Forna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole afternoon in forced proximity to Tony Stark? What could go wrong?

“I can’t believe Fury kicked us out,” Tony complained as they waited for the elevator.

“ _You_ can’t believe it?” Steve said incredulously.  “You and Bruce are the ones who were co-opting SHIELD. resources for your latest ‘project’.  I was just there trying to talk some sense into you!”

“Oh!  Looks like Pop Pop Rogers has mastered the fine art of the sarcastic finger quote.  Bravo!”

The elevator finally arrived, and Bruce rolled his eyes as he followed Tony and Steve onto it.

“Look, Steve,” Bruce said placatingly, “We really did need the extra power for our simulation.  And the feedback causing an explosion like that was _completely_ unexpected.”

“Unexpected but totally awesome,” Tony interjected.

“At any rate,” Bruce pressed on, with a pointed look in Tony’s direction. “We’re sorry you got caught up in it and that Fury suspended you from the building too.  _Right, Tony?”_

What?” Tony looked back and forth between both Bruce and Steve’s expectant looks. “Oh, yeah, of course.  So sorry, Cap.  Really.”

“I’ll pretend like I actually believe you mean that,” Steve groused, but his stern look was softening in amusement despite himself.

“Hey.  Think of it this way,” Tony continued with an eyebrow waggle as they exited the elevator, “We get the afternoon off!  Free time.  We could do whatever we want….”

Tony trailed off as his phone beeped with an incoming text message.

“Huh.” Tony paused as they walked across the lobby.  “Apparently, Romanoff already heard that Fury is forcing us out of the building for the day.”

“And…?” Bruce asked.

“ _And_ she is ordering us to take Rogers here to try that new pizza place that just opened in the Bronx.” Tony answered.

“Ordering?” Steve scoffed. 

Tony met his gaze levelly. “What?  You want to disobey her?”

Steve said nothing and Tony smirked knowingly. “That’s what I thought.  Neither would I.” The last was accompanied with a mock shudder.

“I could go for pizza,” Bruce commented with a shrug.

“Pizza it is, then,” Tony responded happily, throwing the doors open dramatically and exiting the building, aggravations forgotten. 

 

* * *

 

Il Forna pizza was a quaint little restaurant.  It had been open long enough that they didn’t have to wait long for a table, and lunch was (snarky comments from Tony aside) quite enjoyable.  As they exited the restaurant, Steve even found himself laughing at one of Tony’s stories that he would normally pretend he didn’t approve of.

Suddenly, Tony stopped, clutching at Bruce’s shoulder. “Dude!  Look over there!” he exclaimed as he pointed across the street.

Steve was instantly alert, scanning the streets for a threat and wishing he’d brought his shield with him.  When his gaze shifted back around to Tony and Bruce, however, they were staring across the street with a pair of broad smiles, and nothing in their posture was remotely alarmed.  Steve followed their eyes and found a movie theater.  From the outside, it looked like the kind of place he would have visited as a kid.  The marquee proclaimed that the theater was showing a movie called “Star Wars”, which Steve now remembered was something Clint had rather insistently added to his list. 

Tony was now moving rapidly across the street, dragging Bruce with him.  Steve followed and, as they got closer, he saw a poster advertising something that was being hailed as a “marathon event”.  Clint had already informed Steve that there were actually three Star Wars movies and, starting at 2 p.m. today, the theater was screening all of them.

“I don’t know, Tony,” Bruce was saying as Steve caught up to them, although he was looking longingly towards the theater.

“Come _on,_ Bruce! You heard Fury.  He’s not going to let us anywhere near the labs for the rest of the day.  This is kismet.”

Bruce looked at the ground.  “It’s a lot of people, Tony.  In a closed space.  For a long time.”

Tony rested his hand on Bruce’s shoulder and his voice was gentler when he answered. “So we sit near an exit.  You start getting antsy and we leave.  I promise.”

Tony’s face split into a wide grin and he moved to stand next to Steve, reaching up and wrapping an arm around his shoulder.  “Besides, how better for Rip Van Rogersere to experience the definitive cinematic masterpiece of the last century than an in-theater marathon?  If we don’t take him now, he’ll probably get stuck watching them with Barton.  And _he’d_ probably make Steve watch the prequels first just to screw with him.  Would you _really_ condemn him to such a fate, Bruce?  Would you?  I mean, look at this face.” 

Tony tried to smush Steve’s face together, only to find his hand firmly pinned back against his side.

“Do _I_ actually get any say in this?” Steve asked with a pointed look.

“Let me think…uh…..no!” Tony pulled his hand free.  “Besides, what else do you have planned for the day?  Going to teach a lesson to another heavy bag?”

The two glared at each other for a few seconds, until Tony’s eyes lightened with mirth and Steve’s lips quirked upward in a small smile.  Then Tony turned his attention back to Bruce.

“So, whaddya say, Brucie?” he asked imploringly. 

Steve couldn’t help watching with some admiration.  The last time he had seen Tony direct this level of puppy eyes at Bruce, he’d been trying to convince him to bypass some secure server.  And, as Bruce’s shoulders relaxed, Steve realized it was just as effective today as it had been then.

“Ok, fine.” Bruce agreed.

Tony let out a victorious yell.  “Alright!  Let’s go get our Force on.”

“Don’t worry,” he promised at Steve’s baffled expression, “You’ll ‘understand that reference’ soon too.” 

Bruce sent a comforting smile Steve’s way as they followed Tony to the box office, and Steve allowed himself to feel a little excited.  He _had_ been wanting to see these films.  Maybe it would be fun.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Tony handed some bills over to the girl behind the ticket counter with a broad grin.  “Two adults and one senior citizen, please.”

Or maybe not.

 

* * *

 

Seven hours later, the taste of pizza long since replaced by candy and popcorn, Steve, Tony, and Bruce exited the theater.  All three men had smiles splitting their faces.

“Huh?” Tony nudged Steve in the arm with his elbow. “What did we tell you? Cinematic masterpiece, right?”

Steve laughed.  “Alright, Tony.  You win.  Just this once, I think you’ve earned your favorite words.”

Tony looked at him in anticipation and a little confusion.

Leaning a bit closer, Steve made sure to enunciate each word. “Tony Stark, You. Were. Right.”

“See now,” Tony responded with a grin, “Your life would be so much easier if you could just accept that as your default state.”

Steve just shook his head.

“Come on, Tony,” Bruce cautioned.  “It’s been a nice day.  Don’t ruin it by being a jerk.”

“But it’s just so difficult,” Tony lamented.  He sighed, as he looked back and forth between Bruce and Steve’s stern faces.  “Fine.  I’ll try.”

He held up his hands towards Steve, as if in peaceful surrender.

Steve smirked.  “Do or do not, Tony.  There is no try.”

Bruce burst out laughing at the look on Tony’s face and, after a few seconds, of holding a stoic expression, Steve joined him.  It _had_ been a good day.  It was almost enough to make him glad that Tony had gotten them kicked out of SHIELD. 

 

_Target:  Il Forna_

_Observations:_

  *        _Crust is a little overdone; too crispy_
  *        _Reese’s Pieces may be the best thing about this century._
  *        _Han shot first.  This is apparently very important for some reason._
  *        _There may be worse things than earning Tony Stark’s approval._




	6. Paulie Gee's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alteration in mission parameters...

“I like this place,” Steve admitted, looking around Paulie Gee’s.  The small restaurant didn’t look like much from the street.  And those of more luxurious tastes might call the interior cramped.  But, to Steve, it had a homey atmosphere that he found soothing. Plus, the short distance to his SHIELD apartment meant he could get delivery which, according to Clint, was a key requirement for a pizza place in the 21st century.  Not to mention, the slice of pizza Steve was currently inhaling was _delicious_.

“Where’d you hear about it?” Steve asked.

Clint, who had been grinning smugly at Steve’s excitement, sobered, smile dropping from his face and eyes falling to the table.  Natasha shifted in her seat next to him, the lapse in her composure confirming to Steve that he’d just said something wrong.

Clint cleared his throat roughly, then seemed to force himself to answer. “It, uh, it was Coulson’s favorite actually.  He brought us here a few times for debriefs.”

The companionable mood at the table suddenly plummeted, and Steve struggled in vain to think of something non-idiotic to say.

It was Natasha who rescued them from the awkward silence which had descended.

“He also used to send new recruits out to bring back take-out on long nights,” she commented, a slight edge to her voice.

The grin was suddenly back on Clint’s face, though sadness still lingeredin his eyes.  “That’s _right._   I’d almost forgotten about that.  Man, the look on your face when he gave you that order….”

“Well,” Nat replied primly, “it wasn’t _exactly_ the type of mission I was imagining when I let you convince me to join up.”

As his two friends shared a warm glance, Steve decided now was an excellent time to more closely study the distribution of toppings on his slice of pizza. 

After a few seconds, Steve looked up again and tentatively offered: “Well, Agent Coulson obviously had excellent taste.”

Clint snorted.  “Says the guy he hero-worshiped.” 

Steve grinned back.  “Like I said, _excellent_ taste.”

Natasha laughed, and the last of the tension evaporated.  The rest of the meal passed pleasantly, with Natasha and Clint filling Steve in on their favorite memories of the man he’d had enough time to respect, but not to know.

And, if Clint’s voice grew raspy or his eyes got moist at certain points, Steve would have to acknowledge that the air _was_ heavy with garlic and onions. 

And, if Clint shifted his pizza to his other hand, well it must certainly take _some_ training to maintain ambidexterity. 

And, if Clint used his now-free hand to gently grasp Natasha’s under the table, Steve really didn’t see the point of mentioning it at all.

 

(It was almost two days later before Steve realized he’d forgotten to mentally file his “mission report” for Paulie Gee’s.  But, then, as Clint might have said, Steve was beginning to realize that the pizza itself had really only ever been a secondary mission objective for “Operation Perfect Slice”.)


	7. 34th Street Food Truck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holiday lights and shadows of the past...

“What time is this thing supposed to start again?” Steve asked as he and Bruce made their way along the street, pushing against the force of both the December air and the holiday crowds.

“Not until 8,” Bruce replied.  “Although, knowing Tony, that could mean he doesn’t show up until 9:30 _or_ that we could show up at 7 to find things already in full swing.”

Steve laughed brightly.  “Either way, we have some time to kill.  That debrief didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would.”

“You think maybe Fury had plans tonight, too?” Bruce mused.  “Maybe we’ll run into him at the Stark Industries Holiday Extravaganza, sipping eggnog and joining in on the carols.” 

Steve grimaced.  “Somehow, that’s just not something I can picture.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bruce deadpanned.  “I’ll bet he does a stirring rendition of ‘Do You See What I See?”

The two men stared at each other for a second before bursting out into laughter.

“I’m starving,” Steve complained once he caught his breath.  “Fury may have let us out early, but he still kept us through lunch.  Want to grab a snack or something? 

“You do realize,” Bruce answered incredulously, “that we’re about to go to a holiday party hosted by _Stark Industries_?  As in, the only thing likely to be more extravagant than the menu is whatever ugly Christmas sweater Tony has managed to find.” 

“Well, sure,” Steve reasoned, “But it’s all going to be in tiny servings on floating platters.  _And_ we’ll have to push through a couple hundred of Tony’s nearest and dearest friends to get to it.”

“I guess that’s a fair point,” Bruce allowed. 

“Great,” Steve grinned.  He nodded towards a food truck parked a few hundred feet down the road. “So why don’t we grab a slice of pizza or two on the way.”

Bruce shot Steve a look of mock horror.  “Ok.  Now I _know_ that you’ve been spending too much time with Barton.”

“Nah,” Steve said dismissively.  “He would probably call a stop like this ‘sacrilege’ to his highly sophisticated culinary rating system.  An affront to the great pizza list!” Steve gestured dramatically, shooting a boyish grin over his shoulder as he and Bruce approached the cart and joined the short line.

The look Bruce returned was less than impressed.  “I’ve seen Clint Barton make a sandwich out of Twinkies and beef jerky.  He’s hardly got room to criticize _anyone’s_ culinary tastes.”

A few minutes later, the two men walked away from the food truck, paper plates already beginning to soak through with grease held in their hands.

Taking an enthusiastic bite, Steve looked up, double taking when he noticed they were at the intersection for 34th Street.

“Hey,” he called over the Bruce, working to swallow so that his words would be audible. “D’you mind if we head down to Macy’s while we eat this?”

Steve glanced away for a second before continuing, sounding almost sheepish, “I’ve been wanting to go visit the Christmas displays.”

A strange look passed over Bruce’s face, but he nodded, following Steve as they made the turn.

By the time Bruce and Steve had made their way down to the Macy’s storefront and forced their way through the crowds to get a view, the pizza was gone, soggy plates deposited in a trash can along the way.  But they stopped anyway.

For a few moments, they stood together in silence, taking in the animatronic figures, fake snow, and bright lights in front of them. 

“They’ve gotten so elaborate,” Steve’s voice was quiet.  “When I was a kid, my mom used to bring me here.  We couldn’t really afford to shop here, ‘course.  But…every year, the week of Christmas, she’d take a night off work.  And we’d come into the city.  She’d pack sandwiches and we’d sit and eat them at Rockefeller Center.  After, we’d walk and look at all the Christmas displays, ending here.  No matter what else was going on, those nights, they were always…magic.”

As Steve’s voice trailed off, his gaze shifted from the window display to the window itself.  His reflection stared back at him, shadows cast on and off in the blinking lights.  It was strange, he thought how he still sometimes had trouble recognizing himself now.  And it wasn’t even so much the added height, the strength added to his silhouette as a result of the serum.  Instead, it was something in his eyes.  The weight of everything he’d seen since he was a boy basking in Christmas magic with his mother.  Or maybe, the weight of everything he _missed_ seeing.

The sound of Bruce clearing his throat drew Steve out of his admittedly maudlin thoughts.

“My…” Bruce started unsurely.  From the corner of his eye, Steve saw his friend close his eyes for a second, then grit his teeth as he forced himself to continue.  “My mother used to do the same thing.  I mean…not Macy’s obviously.  There was a department store in Dayton.  Rike’s.  They were kind of famous for this sort of thing when I was a kid too.  Well, famous for Ohio anyway.”  A ghost of a smile crossed Bruce’s lips at that.  “Mom would take me to see the windows every year.  Every year until she…” Bruce cleared his throat, again, passing a hand over his eyes, shoulders slumping.

Steve pretended to be completely engrossed in the slow path an animatronic snowman was making around the window.

“Like you said,” Bruce finally continued a few seconds later, voice thick, “It was like magic.  A bright flash of something good.  I wonder, sometimes, if having bright spots like that make the darker stuff easier or harder to live with.”

Steve granted Bruce a few more seconds to compose himself, before allowing his gaze to slide along the glass to look at his friend.  Bruce was focused furiously on the window, and Steve wondered if his thoughts were on the frivolity in front of them, trapped somewhere in the past, or busy trying to find something familiar in his own reflection.

In the end, Steve decided it didn’t really matter.  As the snowman passed in front of them, Steve reached one hand over and settled it lightly on Bruce’s shoulder.  In companionable silence, they watched the snowman join up with a chorus line of reindeer for an homage to the Rockettes.

“Why are the reindeer doing a kick line,” Steve finally asked with bizarre fascination. “And _why_ do I feel like Tony is probably going to have his own version of this thing tonight?”

Bruce let out a weak chuckle.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Tony probably hired out the real Rockettes for the night.”

“Nah,” Steve said, dropping his arm and giving Bruce a gentle nudge with his elbow.  “Too predictable.  Bet he’s hired a trainer to get an _actual_ live reindeer dance line.”

Bruce’s laugh was more genuine as he and Steve turned away from the window to make their way back up the street.  “You’re right.  That does sound like him.  We should ask about it when we get there."

“And give him an idea for next year?” Steve sounded somewhat horrified.  “Pepper would never forgive us.”

“I’ll tell you what though,” Steve continued.  “How about we find Clint when we get there?  We can tell him all about our pre-party snack, and I’ll tell him that I think that food truck slice is the best I’ve had in the city yet.”

“Well, that’s a little mean, Steve,” Bruce chastised playfully, “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

Steve’s answer was lost to the noises of the crowd as he and Bruce slipped back into the hubbub, but the laughter it provoked carried with the wind back towards the window display.  The opening Steve and Bruce had left had quickly been filled by two young boys, bundled against the cold within an inch of their lives.  Mittened hands pressed against the glass eagerly, wide smiles warm and eyes alight.


	8. Ray's Original Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about assumptions, right Steve?

"Gotta love ‘Little Italy’!” Clint’s voice was exuberant as he, Natasha, and Steve made their way along the crowded street.

Glancing around at the hub of activity all around them—music spilling from doorways, delicious aromas heavy in the air—Steve had to agree with his friend.  He shot a broad grin in the archer’s direction as they reached their destination.  A faded red banner announced that they had found “Ray’s Original Pizza”.  And, apparently, they weren’t the only ones.  Even at barely 5-o-clock, the line was already nearly out the door.

“Popular place,” Clint mused as the three of them joined the back of the queue to place their order.  He inhaled deeply, then let out a sound of satisfaction.  “Think I can smell why, though.  Smells delicious!”

“It does seem like a nice place,” Steve agreed, taking a look around at the groups already seated and enjoying their dinner.  “Where’d you hear about this one?” he asked Clint as they shuffled up a few steps.

“Wasn’t me,” Clint said, stopping his perusal of the menu to jerk a thumb over his shoulder in Natasha’s direction.  “Nat put this one on the list.”

Steve focused his attention on Natasha, raising his eyebrow in question.  She shrugged in response.

“It was Pepper’s suggestion, actually,” Natasha answered, “I brought up Clint’s whole “Operation Perfect Slice” at our book club meeting.  And she said this place is Tony’s absolute favorite.

Steve and Clint met each other’s gazes over Natasha’s head.

“ _Book club”_ Steve mouthed incredulously.  Then he turned his attention back to Natasha.

“ _This_ is Tony’s favorite pizza place?,” Steve scoffed.”  Seems a little low-rent for him, doesn’t it?”

Natasha looked at Steve for a long moment, and he was surprised to see disappointment in her eyes before she turned away to look at the menu with a nonchalance that Steve was beginning to recognize as feigned.  For a second, he didn’t think she was going to respond.  But, then, she continued softly, “Apparently, this was Howard’s favorite place.  Even when Tony was still living in L.A., he would stop by every time he was in New York.”

As Natasha’s words sank in, Steve felt ashamed, dropping his head slightly.  It was still only too easy for him to buy the persona Tony Stark put on for the world, ignoring the heart of the man underneath.  He felt Natasha staring at him and raised his head to meet her gaze.  This time, whatever she saw met with her approval, and she gave him a soft smile. 

“Oh, hell yes!  They have three-cheese garlic knots here!” Clint suddenly interjected.  Steve half-listened to his friend enthuse over the menu for a few minutes, only realizing that he’d tuned out when he heard Clint calling his name.

“What was that?” Steve asked.

Clint gave him an odd look.  “I asked what you were thinking, Cap.  I mean,” he gestured to the menu, “what sounds good to you?”

“Weren’t Tony and Bruce working late in the lab tonight?” Steve asked.

Confused, Clint look to Natasha, who had knowing smile on her face, before answering.  “Uh, yeah.  I think that’s what they said.”

“Well, then,” Steve answered, crooked smile breaking out over his face, “I’m thinking that take-out sounds pretty good to me.”

Forty minutes later, Steve, Clint, and Natasha walked into Tony’s lab in the Tower, four pizza boxes and—at Clint’s insistence—two orders of garlic knots held aloft.

“Dinner time boys!” Clint yelled as they entered.  “Come get it now, because I am starving and I _will_ eat your share.”

Tony and Bruce, who were hunched over design schematics on the center table, looked up in confusion at the interruption.  But at the sight and smell of food, both men looked happy to take a break.

As they got closer with the food, Steve noticed Tony sweep the designs—for what looked to be an engine similar to those they’d dealt with on the helicarrier—off the table to make room.  Within a few minutes, the five of them were happily settled in and munching on dinner.  Of course, Tony kept up a line of obnoxious commentary throughout.  But Steve noticed that his smile was more genuine than normal as he reached for a third slice.

Tony must have noticed Steve watching him, because he held the slice up towards Steve in a mock toast.  “Thanks for the dinner, Cap.  Gotta say, it was a nice surprise.  There’s nothing quite like Ray’s.”

Personally, Steve thought the cheese was just a bit too goopy.  But, the smile really did suit his friend.  So, Steve returned it, and all he said was, “It _is_ pretty great, Tony.  Happy to do it.”

 


	9. Coney Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't always have to speak to share an important moment with someone.

"Well," Clint said as he joined Steve in the elevator.  "Looks like we have a couple of hours to kill before the briefing tonight.  Wanna get lunch?  Or were you going to stick around for today's Science Bros. show?"

When he didn't get an answer, Clint turned his head to fully look at Steve.   He was staring straight ahead at the elevator doors, eyes clouded and mind obviously far away.

"Hello?" Clint waved his hand wildly in front of Steve's face.  "Earth to Cap.  Anyone home in there?"  He'd meant his tone to be joking, but Clint couldn't help the note of real concern that bled into his voice.

Finally, Steve noticed someone was talking to him.  "What?  Oh.  Hey Clint.  Didn't notice you get on.  What were you saying?"  Steve's voice was polite, but tired.  Clint considered mentioning that, and asking about the bags under Steve's eyes.  But, in the end, he held his tongue, deciding instead to just repeat himself.

"Was just asking if you wanted to grab a bite?  Get out of the Tower for a few?  There's still a few joints to cross off the list."  Clint tried to put as much cajoling into his voice as he could.  He wasn't sure exactly why yet, but it suddenly seemed critical that he get Steve out in the world today.

It looked like he was going to be unsuccessful, however.  Steve opened his mouth, a refusal clearly on his lips.  But, then, he stopped himself mid-head shake.  Instead, he answered slowly, as if each word was as surprise to himself.  "Yeah.  Actually, lunch sounds good.  But...d'you mind if I pick?"

Clint shrugged carelessly, pleased with the direction the conversation had taken.  "Sure, Steve-O.  Y'now me 'n food.  I ain't all that picky."

Steve nodded in appreciation--of Clint's flexibility or his iron stomach Clint wasn't sure.  The two of them exited the Tower and hailed a cab.  It took some effort, but Clint managed to keep his surprise from showing when Steve told the cabbie to take them to Coney Island.

When it became clear that Steve would be fine with spending the whole ride in somewhat tense silence, Clint shoved down his own curiosity and started to talk.  He told Steve about his latest idea for arrows (" _Nat doesn't see the point.  And I'm like,_ 'Why? _Because_...boomerangs _!'_ "), shared the story of the first year recruit who had thought it was a good idea to challenge Natasha to hand-to-hand combat during the first week of training, _("Shockingly, he washed out.")_ , and pretty much rambled on about anything else he could think of.  Steve didn't respond to any of it.  But, out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw him starting to relax slightly.

Steve's shoulders lost their rigid set.  His fists (Which Clint now acknowledged had been clenched since he'd first run into him on the elevator) uncurled to rest loosely in his lap.  In short, Steve no longer looked like a spooked animal trying to decide if he wanted to pick a fight or start running and never stop.   

When they reached Coney Island, Steve paid the driver.  He and Clint walked together through the entrance to the park and along the boardwalk, Clint maintaining his mindless chatter all the way.

Steve ducked into the first pizza place they passed.  He ordered an extra large with everything, to go, making it the first time he'd spoken since giving the cabbie their destination.

When the pizza was ready, Steve and Clint headed back into the weak spring sunlight.  They walked until they reached the Cyclone and sat to eat in the roller coaster's mammoth shadow.

By this point, Clint had stopped talking.  He still didn't have a complete read on the situation, but he'd realized that his attempts to fill the silence would no longer be appreciated.  Clint was old enough to know, especially thanks to his relationship with Natasha, that you didn't always have to speak to share an important moment with someone; that there was value in simply existing in the same space of another person, comfort in the sound of someone else's breath near yours, especially on days when you found your own difficult to draw.

Between the two of them, they finished the pizza quickly.  Then they simply sat and watched the other people milling around the park--a group of teenagers indulging their sense of rebellion by skipping school, a young family out and determined to enjoy the early spring, despite the chill lingering in the air.

Eventually, Clint dared to break the silence.  "Why here, Steve?"

Steve shrugged.  In the shadows, Clint saw a small smile tug at Steve lips, though it failed to reach his eyes.

Steve remained quiet for several moments, so long that Clint had just about reconciled himself to not receiving an answer.  But, then, Steve surprised him again, answering in a soft whisper.

"It's March 10th," Steve responded simply.  His voice was hoarse, and Clint decided to do him the courtesy of pretending that it was from disuse.  Steve didn't offer any more than that, but Clint felt the last puzzle piece fall into place all the same, whether Steve meant for it to or not.  Clint was a kid once.  And just like every other kid in his neighborhood, he'd idolized Captain America and the Howling Commandos.

After sitting in silence for another fifteen minutes or so, Steve stood up, brushing off his pants with a heavy sigh.  Clint rose too, taking the empty pizza box over to a nearby trash can and giving Steve a moment alone to contemplate The Cyclone in silence.

With a last, long look at the coaster, Steve turned and started walking back toward the entrance.  Clint spared another glance himself, impulsively whispering a sentiment under his breath before turning to follow his friend.  As the two men fell into step with one another, the wind carried Clint's words away and over the sea.

“Happy Birthday, Sergeant Barnes.”


	10. The Chubby Vegetarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't buy the propaganda. The real Steve Rogers is a little shit.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Clint moaned, gazing with disgust at the restaurant, the staff, and every customer inside the joint as if they’d personally offended him.

“Huh,” Steve breathed, looking around with slightly more confusion and less hostility.

_The Chubby Vegetarian_ boasted the signage, along with an explanation that all ingredients were all-natural and vegetarian friendly.  According to the chalkboard above the register, the daily special was the “Thai Tofu Triumph”. 

Next to Steve, Clint was still sputtering.  “I can’t…what… _why_?

“Not what you were expecting, I take it,” Steve commented dryly. 

“Oh, you think?” Clint roared.  The cashier shot Clint a dirty glare over his thick-rimmed glasses, which Clint shot right back.  “No,” Clint scoffed, voice heavy with sarcasm.  “Believe it or not, I didn’t suddenly have a craving for”—he squinted critically at the menu—“Sriracha Sprout Surprise.”

“Then why are we here?” asked Steve.

“Natasha recommended it!” Clint defended, voice now colored with betrayal.  “She said it was the hottest new place in the city for pizza!”

Steve laughed, causing Clint to stop pouting briefly in favor of a look of confusion.

“What did you do?” Steve wondered.

“Me?” Clint asked incredulously .  “Why are you so sure that I must have done something?”

Steve didn’t respond and simply lifted an eyebrow, the _“Really?”_ unspoken but clearly communicated.

Clint lasted about five seconds before he dropped the look of slightly-feigned outrage, huffing a laugh and crossing his arms.  “Ok, fine.  So I might have, maybe, left a couple of my new booby trapped arrows lying around the living room.  And Nat might have tripped them a little bit coming in late the other night.”

“A ‘little bit’ how?” Steve asked.

“A ‘little bit’ like her favorite little-black-infiltrate-high-end-social-situations dress is now charred,some of her new hacking tech is ash, and Liho still hasn’t come out from under the bed.”

“Geez, Clint!” Steve exclaimed.  “What kind of arrows are you building?”

“They’re actually going to be really sweet once I get the kinks worked out,” Clint grinned, before sobering slightly.  “Some of the explosive arrows are still just a little faulty is all.”

Steve shook his head, but his attempts to look stern came off as amused.  “Well, serves you right then,” he judged, stepping up to the counter.

“Wait a second!” Clint called, an edge of panic in his voice.  “I’ll admit my housekeeping could use some work, and Nat probably had every right to send me on this wild good chase, but you’re not seriously going to make me _eat here_ , are you?”

Steve let Clint sweat for a second, before relenting.  “No.  I’m not _that_ cruel.  But, I was thinking it would be a shame to come all the way down here for nothing, ‘specially considering Natasha went to all the trouble of finding this place.  And, well, Tony sure seemed to appreciate it the last time we brought him some pizza”—by this time, the aghast expression on Clint’s face had faded, a broad grin and twinkling eyes taking its place—“And everyone at the Tower’s been working so hard lately...I’m sure they must be getting hungry.  What do you think?  You were the one singing the praises of delivery pizza.  ”

Steve looked to Clint for approval.  The archer had started to bounce up and down on his toes, and he swaggered the few steps forward to meet Steve at the counter.  “Oh, I think you’re right, Steve-O.  The least we can do really...”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Clint walked into the living room of the Tower, collapsing into an armchair.  Tony, bent over some schematics on the kitchen counter, grunted in greeting.  A few seconds later, both men looked up as the sound of a doorbell rang out across the floor.

“Who is it, JARVIS?” Tony asked.

_Food delivery, Mr. Stark_ , JARVIS replied, _in your name._

“I didn’t order anything,” Tony started, before trailing off with a smile.  “Ah.  Dear, sweet Pepper.  Making sure I don’t starve even when she’s off in L.A. on a business trip.  Go ahead and send it up, JARVIS.

_Very good, sir._

Tony turned back to whatever project he was working on.  He barely even looked up when the _ding!_ of the elevator signaled the delivery’s arrival.  However, when he heard multiple sets of footsteps, he did pause.  Four delivery men, each with arms full of pizza boxes, were attempting to navigate their way across the room to the kitchen, a feat made more difficult by the fact that they could barely see over the tower of boxes.

“What the hell?” Tony erupted.

“Mr. Stark?” asked a muffled voice behind one of the pizza box mountains.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Tony confirmed.  “Better question, though:  What is all of this?” he gestured to the pizza boxes, which were now being carefully transferred to the kitchen counters.

“Your order, sir.”

“My what?” Tony barked.

“Your…order?” the teenager questioned, balking somewhat at Tony’s tone.  “Fifty Thai Tofu Triumph pizzas.”

Tony’s face shifted quickly from confusion, to disgust, to anger, to suspicion—and here his gaze shifted to where Clint was sitting and semi-successfully stifling his laughter.

“Will that be cash or credit, sir?” the delivery boy’s question drew Tony’s attention back to him.

For a second, it seemed like Tony was going to argue.  He opened his mouth and his eyes narrowed, trademark Stark stubbornness making itself known in the set of his jaw.  But then he seemed to notice the cluster of other teenagers standing in the living room.  Specifically, he noticed that one of them had his smartphone out and recording.  So, he closed his mouth, took a deep breath, and reached for his wallet.

The second the elevator doors closed behind the delivery crew—paid bill and generous tip safely in hand—Tony rounded on Clint.

“You!”  he accused, viciously stabbing a finger in the air in Clint’s direction.

“Me what?”  Clint asked, voice the epitome of innocence.

“You did this!  I know you did!”  Tony started to advance towards Clint’s chair, only to pause as Steve walked into the room.

“What’s up with all the yelling?” he asked.  “I could hear you guys…Whoa!  What’s with all the pizza, Tony?  Planning a slumber party?”

“Ha ha ha.” Tony deadpanned.  “Your wit continues to underwhelm, Gramps.  But, if you must know, Barton here thought it would be funny to prank me.”

“Hey now!”  Clint held up his hands in protest.  “I agree that this is _hilarious_.  But I had nothing to do with it.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Tony grumbled disbelievingly.

During this exchange, Steve had moved across the room to examine the pizza boxes more carefully.  His eyes were drawn to a piece on top of one of the stacks.

“Oh, here we go!” He exclaimed triumphantly.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“A receipt.”  Steve answered.  “Complete with the time the order for all of this came in.  So, Clint, what were you doing at—oh, hey, actually I can answer that.”

“What are you talking about, Spangles?” Tony asked, ripping the receipt from Steve’s hand.

“According to that,” Steve nodded towards the receipt, “this order was placed—in person-- 2 hours ago.  Clint was giving me an archery lesson.”

Tony paused his perusal of the receipt to fix Steve with a searching look.  His attention was so focused that he missed the slightly startled look Clint sent the soldier’s way.

“An archery lesson,” Tony questioned flatly.

“Yeah.  It’s never a bad idea to look into developing some new skills,” Steve responded evenly.

Tony tilted his head quizzically.  “I don’t know if I believe you, Cap.”

Steve snorted a laugh.  “Right.  Because with what little free time I have in between alien invasions and figuring out whatever the hell a Kardashian is, what I really want to do is get in the middle of whatever childishness you and Clint get up to.”

“Besides,” Steve added after he and Tony spent a few more seconds glaring at each other. “You don’t have to believe me.  Clint activated one of his holographic training modules.  JARVIS should have a record of it.  With one of those timestamp things.”

Tony grunted in acknowledgement, before looking towards the ceiling.

“JARVIS!  Were any archery training sessions run today?”

_Affirmative sir.  Agent Barton accessed a Level 1 training this afternoon, then altered parameters for Captain Rogers’ specifications._

“Ok, fine.  But when was this?”  Tony demanded.

Again, if Tony had been paying attention, he might have noticed Clint flinch infinitesimally in his seat.

_The simulation was started two hours and seven minutes ago and lasted for approximately forty-five minutes._

Steve gave Tony a pleased little nod, and Tony let out a roar of frustration.

“Fine, fine!  Barton’s off the hook!  But _someone_ did this, and I’m going to find out who.”  Tony stomped over to one of the wall interfaces, continuing to speak to JARVIS in angry tones, while Steve crossed back into the living room.  Clint rose to meet him and they stood side by side, watching Tony’s increasingly frustrated motions with matching grins.

“Man,” Clint whispered, “I thought for sure we were busted.  I wanted to smack you when you told him to check the access logs!  We only opened that program in the gym an hour ago, not two.  Don’t tell me _you_ managed to hack the Tower systems!”

“No, but I didn’t need to,” Steve answered with satisfaction.  “When Tony asked JARVIS when we activated the simulation, all JARVIS did was check the difference between the current time in the gym and the timestamp on the start of the simulation.”

Clint was still looking confused, so Steve clarified further.

“Turns out, even computer systems as advanced as the Tower’s have options to change the time on the clock manually.  While I was waiting for you in the gym, I might have, maybe, accidentally re-triggered the gym clock’s daylight savings option.  So it may be a little bit off at the moment.

Clint’s grin was huge and not a little bit proud.  “Don’t you think Tony’ll figure it out?”

“Well,” Steve drew the word out, “I imagine I’ll figure out my mistake in a few minutes and go back to fix it.”

“JARVIS could still rat us out, though,” Clint ventured.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that too much.” Steve responded mysteriously.

Clint’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Let’s just say,” Steve allowed, “that while Tony might have based JARVIS largely on his human counterpoint, he threw in a little bit of Howard too.  Namely, JARVIS is just as incapable of passing up a good game of chess.  Even if it means failing to mention a temporary glitch in the Tower’s housekeeping systems.”

Clint opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.  “I…I’m actually speechless, Cap.  Who knew you could be so devious?”

Steve laughed.  “You should really look into some actual history, instead of just propaganda, sometime.”

“A ha!” Tony’s voice carried over to them triumphantly.

“Figure it out?” Steve asked politely.

“As I matter of fact, Ultimate Frisbee, I did.  According to the Tower’s computer logs, a certain Agent Romanoff was recently googling ‘Vegetarian Pizzerias’.”  Tony turned back to the interface, “Gotcha, Widow.”

Clint leaned over to whisper directly in Steve’s ear.  “He can’t _actually_ think that if Nat wanted to prank him she’d be careless enough to leave such an obvious trail?”

Steve shook his head.  “I don’t know.  You know what he’s like once he’s onto an idea.  He won’t let it go.”

“Do you think he’ll actually try to prank her back?” Clint’s voice was equal parts intrigued and horrified.

Steve shrugged and started to make his way back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Clint hissed.  “You’re not actually going to eat that disgrace to the name of pizza, are you?”

“Of course not,” Steve answered, as if Clint had asked the stupidest question in the history of stupid questions.  “But, this”—Steve gestured to where Tony had now taken over the coffee table, schematics and Starkpads spread out, muttering to himself something involving ‘payback’ and ‘show her’—“ _this_ deserves popcorn.”

Clint laughed as Steve grinned at him again and strolled into the kitchen, his steps light.  Looking over at the towers of pizza growing cold on the kitchen counter, Clint reflected on the prank with satisfaction.  He hadn’t actually been in a position to play silly pranks like that when he’d _actually_ been a kid, and it had been nice.  Of course, pulling it off with one of his childhood heroes (he could admit that to himself at least) had been a nice bonus.  Even better, turns out Captain America was even cooler than the toys and games Clint used to pretend he wasn’t jealous of when he spotted other boys in his neighborhood playing.

Actually, Steve Rogers was kind of a little shit.  And it was a glorious!  Especially since it seemed like a thing not many people got to discover.  At the thought, Clint grinned again, before following Steve into the kitchen.  Natasha was due back to the Tower any minute, and they _definitely_ needed popcorn.  And pizza bagels, assuming Bruce hadn’t eaten them all again.


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if things will never be perfect again, they can still be really good.

A light series of knocks echoed throughout Steve’s apartment.  He opened the door to see Carlos standing in the doorway, pizza box held in his hands and “Paulie Gee’s” proudly emblazoned across his shirt.  Steve couldn’t help but let out a little sigh of relief.  Of all the pizza delivery workers he’d gotten to know over the last few months, Carlos was his favorite.  A science student at one of the local universities, Carlos did a better job than anyone of treating Steve like just another “Paulie Gee’s” customer.

“Good evening, Carlos,” Steve greeted.

Carlos’ answering smile was broad. “Hi there, Captain Rogers. I’ve got the usual here for you.”  As he spoke, he offered the box to Steve.

As Steve took it, trading for a generous tip, he inhaled the scents drifting from the steaming box, letting out a small sound of satisfaction.  “Looks, perfect.  I really needed this tonight.”

“Rough day,” Carlos asked sympathetically, before suddenly looking concerned.  “It’s nothing bad, is it? 

At Steve’s confused look, Carlos clarified. “You know, it’s nothing serious?  I mean,” he gestured vaguely out the window, towards one of the re-construction sites still left over after the Battle of New York, “Not _your_ kind of serious?”

Steve huffed a small laugh.  “No, no, nothing like that.  Just a _very_ trying day of paperwork and bureaucracy.”

“Oh.” Carlos’ voice was relieved.  “Well, that’s good.  I was worried for a second I’d have to call off my evening to hunker down somewhere.”

“Why,” Steve teased, “Got big plans or something?”

Carlos ran a hand through his long (rather beautiful) hair, before answering self-consciously.  “No.  Not really.  I just…a friend of mine—he runs the radio station on campus—we were gonna grab some food and hang out.”

Steve smiled, and pretended not to notice that Carlos was blushing.  It was kind of hot in the hallway, after all.  “Well, that sounds like fun.  Have a good night, Carlos.”

“Yeah, you too, Captain Rogers.  Enjoy the pizza!”  Carlos waved goodbye enthusiastically, before practically bounding back down the hall.

Steve smiled after him, before heading back into his apartment with his dinner.  It _had_ been a long day.  If Clint or Natasha had been in town, he might have let them convince him to go out on his evening off.  But, since they were both off doing something classified, he was more than happy to take Clint’s advice about the marvels of delivery pizza.

Steve hummed happily to himself as he placed the pizza on the coffee table.  He turned his TV on and started loading the Netflix app.  After ducking into the kitchen quickly for something to drink, he got comfy on the couch.  He had to admit that it would be nice to just spend the evening relaxing at home.

The thought caught Steve somewhat off guard.  And he waited for the rest of his mind to argue against it.  But, sitting there--comfortably propped up by the throw pillows he and Nat had picked, scrolling through the Netflix channels Clint had customized ( _Why do they even have a “Dogs Around the World” category?)_ , glancing over at the half finished sketch he was planning to add to his wall—Steve realized that the arguments he was expecting just weren’t there anymore.

Stranger still, he thought he might be okay with that.  Steve took a bite of his first slice of pizza, chewing slowly as he contemplated.  Just like it had been that first day Clint and Natasha took him to Paulie Gee’s, the pizza was delicious.  It wasn’t perfect.  Maybe nothing else would ever really be again.  But it was _good_.  Actually, Steve was forced to admit, a lot of things were pretty good these days.

Steve shook his head reprimanding himself for such deep thoughts when he was supposed to be taking the night off.  He raised the remote again, before pausing as he read the description of the film he had unseeingly stopped on during his musings.

_A young man (Matthew Broderick), finds a back door into a military central computer in which reality is confused with game-playing, possibly starting World War III._

“Huh,” Steve breathed.  “Sounds interesting.”

Steve pressed play, tossing the remote onto the cushions beside him and relaxing deeper into the couch.  As the opening credits started to play, he lifted the slice of pizza to his mouth once more. 

Inhaled the tantalizing smell of garlic.

Took a bite.

Smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of this particular story. Thanks to everyone who came with me this far. This is, by far, the longest and most involved piece I've ever written. I hope enjoyed reading it half as much as I did writing it. I would love to hear what you thought.   
> (And, yes, to those of you wondering, all of the pizza places mentioned have existed in NYC at some point in time.)

**Author's Note:**

> This all takes place in the nebulous "in between" after Avengers and before Winter Soldier. For the time being, Steve is still living in NYC in SHIELD assigned quarters and the rest of the team is nearby. In the interest of having this available to you guys before "Age of Ultron" destroys everything including our hearts and souls, I'm putting this all up at once. I really hope you guys enjoy it. :)


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